Helping my Hands
by Hobo Patsy
Summary: When Severus is found in bad shape, Hermione is appointed to help him with his potions in the dungeons. With Voldemort making himself more known every day, Severus finds that he may need the extra help-- Post OotP. Not SSHG.
1. Default Chapter

_Cold cold it's so cold_

He could barely bring himself to move anymore. His boots dragged against the path which was rapidly filling with snow. His fingers, raw red, were exposed to the harsh blizzard swirling around him.

His cloak did not fly around him in the strong north wind; it had frozen into long creases. The lights of what must have been Hagrid's hut shined feebly through the thick snow, guiding him towards the castle.

_So cold_

It occurred to him to use his wand to produce some heat, but his frostbit fingers scrabbled fruitlessly against the clasps of his cloak. The neatly shoveled path was disappearing faster than he could walk. He staggered along, looking like a drunkard emerging from the local tavern.

One of his boots smashed against a chunk of ice protruding from the ground, sending him sprawling. He looked up and saw the steps of Hagrid's hut only a few yards away.

The wind pulled back the hood of the heavy cloak. His head was bowed against the elements as he attempted to drag himself to the front door of the hut.

Buried deep in the snow were his bare hands. They splashed tiny arcs of blood every time he brought them slowly above the mounting snow.

In a show of amazing tenacity, he pulled himself up the stairs to the small but warm hut, the only sanctuary to the storm.

_Why am I so cold_

Blood froze on his hands as quickly as it leaked out of the breaks in his skin. In the minutes his hair had been out in the open, it was as stiff as the rest of him.

He reached up a battered hand and grasped a window ledge as hard as he could. Several times he slipped, leaving crimson marks across the wood. Slowly but surely, he made his way to his knees, slumping against the wall of the hut. Weakly, he clawed at the panes, streaking them red like grotesque stained glass.

Hagrid must have been asleep or busy because he didn't notice, despite his valiant efforts. Defeated, he collapsed on the stoop. As if he were a common shrub, snow covered him until he looked like nothing more than a lump under the white blanket.

Christmas dawned brightly. The ferocious storm of the previous night had cleared, leaving the sky a light blue.

At Hogwarts, breakfast had been subdued. Professor Dumbledore was not his normal, cheery Christmas self. He was rather preoccupied. Most of the professors were, with the exception of Professor Snape, who was absent.

"Greasy bat probably doesn't even know it's Christmas," Ron said darkly as he donned his new Weasley sweater and scarf.

"Yeah, probably," agreed Harry. He too was pulling on his new Weasley jumper.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had remained in Hogwarts over Christmas vacation. Times were getting more perilous with each passing day. It wasn't safe for Harry– or any of his friends– to be too far from the safehold that was Hogwarts.

The threesome were going down to visit Hagrid now, having ate breakfast and opened their presents.

"Do you think Hagrid will want us to visit Grawp?" asked Ron anxiously as he and Harry followed Hermione. She was melting the snow with her wand.

Harry snorted, but Hermione didn't look concerned.

"You heard Hagrid. He said Grawp was coming along nicely. Said he knew more words and everything," she said.

"He also said Norbert was cute and Blasted-Ended Skrewt were harmless."

Ron and Hermione bickered, as usual, all the way to Hagrid's. Harry ignored them and pounded on the door. He heard Hagrid thump over.

"Merry Christmas!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione said in unison. As soon as the door began to open, Ron and Hermione had dropped their argument over Hagrid.

Hagrid grinned. "And a merry Christmas to you three, too. Come in, come in, just about to make meself a cup of tea."

He ushered them in and poured them some tea.

"So how's Grawp?" asked Ron, slightly sarcastically.

"Grawpy?" repeated Hagrid, lighting up. "Oh, he's just great. Don't even try to hurt me nomore." He gestured toward his now bruise-free face.

They continued talking until Hermione's attention was drawn in another direction. She stared at the window facing the Forbidden Forest, seemingly confused.

"Hagrid," she said slowly. "What's that smeared on your window?"

"What are you talking about, Hermione?"

She pointed toward the window. "Your window over there, there's red stuff all over it. Look like blood . . . "

Hagrid heaved himself up and examined the window closely.

"That _is _blood. Some bird prolly hit the window," said Hagrid, rubbing at the glass, even though the blood was on the other side.

Hermione frowned. "That's an awful lot of blood for just a little bird. Have you shoveled over there yet? Maybe what hit it is still laying there."

"Grawpy broke my shovel the other day when I was trying to show him how to dig. Haven't got anything to shovel with."

Hermione stood up and pulled on her mittens. "Well, I'm going to go see what it is."

Harry and Ron stood up with her.

"We'll be back in a second, Hagrid."

"Yeah, we're just going to dig this thing up."

The sun was high in the sky now, reflecting on the fresh snowfall. Upon walking outside, Harry, Ron, and Hermione threw their gloved hands over their eyes.

"Bloody hell, that's bright!" Ron exclaimed. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Don't be such a baby. Come on and help me."

She bent over by the window. Sure enough, there was an irregular lump in the snow just blow it. Looking somewhat scared, more concerned, she dropped to her knees and began pawing at the pile.

Soon, a small patch of black was exposed. She glanced back at Ron and Harry, who immediately joined her and began pushing the snow away.

"It's all bloody over he--"

With a look of horror on his face, he picked up an ice-covered, abraded hand. The sleeve of the black robe had been pushed back slightly, revealing an appalling piece of artwork on the inside of the forearm.

Hermione screamed.

If breakfast was a subdued affair, Christmas dinner was more like a funeral than a happy holiday occasion. Dumbledore wasn't even present. Every other professor barely talked, and when they did, it was nothing more than quiet whispers. Among the students, it was pretty much exactly the opposite.

The only students that knew of what happened were Harry, Ron and Hermione. The rest of the student body laughed and joked cheerfully.

Harry and Ron pretended to not be bothered, pretended to be happy with Christmas, and pretended to shove food in their mouths. Hermione didn't even try to pretend. She prodded at her food uninterestedly with her fork.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry said quietly. "There's nothing you can do about it anyway. Better to just forget it and try to enjoy what's left of Christmas."

"Enjoy what's left of Christmas? Didn't you see him? Didn't you see? Didn't you see his face, or his hands. . ." she broke off, shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of the ghastly images.

"Hermione," Harry began, resting a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. But she shrugged it off, pushing her full plate of food away.

"I'm going back to Gryffindor tower. See you guys later," she said, swinging her feet over the bench and walking quickly from the Great Hall.

Harry and Ron exchanged worried looks, but continued eating. It would probably be better to just leave her be until she wanted to talk first.

_I'm still cold so cold_

He moved his hands slowly, expecting to feel open sores grating against crystals of ice. Instead he felt nothing.

_God, are my hands cut off?_

His eyes shot open, wide with horror. He was still unable to move. He strained to get up, but something was keeping him down.

Though his eyes were open, everything around him blurred together. He could only make out vague shapes and he could hear nothing. It felt like his mind was wading through ice water, numb and dense.

Someone was hovering over him. Who?

"Poppy, he's waking up," the voice said, sounding far away.

Suddenly the nothingness in his hands vanished, replaced with sharp, agonizing pain.


	2. Chapter Two

Christmas evening.

Hermione sat in an armchair next to the fireplace in Gryffindor tower. She had been staring aimlessly at the same page in her book for the past half an hour.

The people around her were all happy, carefree. Chatting about what they were going to do with the rest of their holidays, about what presents they got, about anything. Harry and Ron, sitting on opposite sides of her, were absorbed in an enthusiastic conversation about Quidditich.

Suddenly, she snapped her book shut and sat up straighter, startling Harry and Ron out of conversation.

"What's wrong? Did you see something?" asked Harry anxiously, craning his head around.

Hermione wordlessly gestured toward one of the windows, where an owl perched on the sill. It was determinedly pecking at the windowpane, but was drowned out in the din of the common room.

She got up and unlatched the window. The bird, a regal–looking barn owl, swooped in and landed on the back of the chair Hermione had previously occupied. Several heads in the common room turned to watch the owl's flight, but they soon turned back to their own conversations.

Ron reached over and plucked the scroll from the outstretched, waiting leg of the owl. Immediately, with a soft hoot, it glided back out the window Hermione held open.

"Blimey, Hermione, it's for you!" said Ron, examining the scroll. "I wonder who it's from . . . your friend Krum, perhaps?"

Hermione sighed, irritated. "Even if it was from him, it wouldn't be any of your concern. Besides, that was a school owl." She snatched the scroll from his hands, broke the wax seal, and unrolled it on one of the nearby tables.

"It's from Dumbledore," Hermione mumbled, brows furrowed. "What does he want me to do?"

"Well," said Harry insistently. "Go on. What does he want?"

"He wants me to– oh, my God."

* * *

Madam Pomfrey had taken the bandages off of his hands. Even the gentle draft of air circulating through the room caused an unbearable pain against his hands.

"How does it feel, Severus?" asked Dumbledore, peering down at him anxiously.

His vision was as blurred as it was when he woke up, but even the hazy outlines that were his hands and the sickly color and smell was more than enough. Severus didn't even bother responding to Dumbledore's question.

The smell was subtle, the smell of meat left in the freezer too long then allowed to thaw.

"My hands?" he asked hoarsely. "That smell?"

"Yes, Severus."

Nausea hit him like a tidal wave. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

Severus had managed to get a vague glimpse of one of his hands, disgustingly colored dark red and purple, even blackening toward his fingertips. Where he had clawed at the splintery windowsill, skin hung in discolored strips that Madam Pomfrey had not yet gotten to trim away.

Madam Pomfrey had finally come over, carrying bandages, warm water, and a few small bottles.

"Good evening, Professor," she said, setting her materials on his bedside table. "How are you feeling?"

Again, he ignored the question. "Evening? What day is it?"

"It's four o'clock, Professor. Today is Christmas day. This might hurt a bit," added Madam Pomfrey, peeling a pussy mess of a bandage from the palm of his hand.

Dumbledore rested one of his cool hands against Severus's forehead, restraining him as much as feeling for temperature.

"He's quite hot, Poppy. A few more blankets should do him nicely," Dumbledore said gently.

"Of course, in a moment, Albus. Just let me finish getting the rest of these bandages of his hands. It must hurt terribly, poor dear."

"You can say what you like when I'm not conscious, but _kindly_ stop talking like I'm not here and like I'm a toddler," Severus growled, head clearing enough for coherent thought but still fuzzy.

Madam Pomfrey pursued her lips and continued to work. "He can't be that hurt. Listen to him talk." She had now started to pour the water slowly over his hands.

"So what's wrong with me this time?" Severus asked in a would-be casual, still raspy and vague, voice.

"Frostbite," Madam Pomfrey said.

Severus slumped back down in his pillows. "Thank God it wasn't anything serious."

"Wasn't anything serious?"she repeated, shaking her head. "There are three degrees of frostbite, Professor, third being the worst. You have third degree here. Bordering on gangrene. Heavens, you wouldn't even have hands if you were a Muggle."

Frowning, Severus said, "That can't be right; it couldn't be that bad. I was only gone for a couple days."

"You spent the night in a drift of snow with your hands quite literally frozen, Severus," Dumbledore said. "And we don't know how much happened before last night, even."

"Fine. How much is fixable? Will my hands be amputated, or will I just die?" he asked thickly, his words still slightly slurred together.

Dumbledore sighed. "I really wish you wouldn't joke about things like this. Your hands won't be amputated and you won't die. But until Poppy sees it to be fit, you can't use your hands for anything. Salves and the likes can be used to speed it up, of course, but that's all."

Frostbite kills living cells. Magic has its limits; it can't help dead cells. It can't help dead anything.

"You should have full function in about three weeks."

"Three _weeks_? I have class in _one_ week. I'm a Potions Master. I use my hands for my job. I can't not use my hand," Severus said sharply, though talking so loudly increased the throb in his head.

"It will only take longer and be more painful if you try to use them before they are healed."

"What am I supposed to do, then? Just cancel my classes?"

"Of course not, that would be absurd. I've found you a helper, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, trying to soften the imminent blow. He ignored his expression of growing dismay.

"You don't need to worry. She's perfectly capable. Top of your NEWT class, I believe."

Severus suddenly felt as he had when he had caught a smell of his hands. "No. Absolutely not, Albus. I will die first. Madam Pomfrey, take out your saws right now and cut my hands off."

It was Dumbledore's turn to be dismayed. "You're overacting a tad. Miss Granger is an admirable student and very respectful. She's also the one who found you. If she hadn't, you would probably still be on Hagrid's porch."

"Hagrid's porch?" Severus said, momentarily distraught. "Granger found me? Wait, no. That's not the point. The point is that I refuse to have _her_ helping me. If I have help, fine, but not her.

Dumbledore tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "The only way that would happen is if she refused the offer. And I can't see that happening."

By that time, Madam Pomfrey had finished re-bandaging his hands. It had hurt quite badly, though not as badly as Severus had anticipated. Any pain he did feel he funneled toward Dumbledore and his ridiculous idea. It at least helped him clear his mind more.

"Any rational minded student would refuse an offer to work in close quarters with me. Damn it, I don't need the help."

"But you said only a moment ago yourself that your whole job revolves around using your hands. You couldn't possibly make potions swathed in cloth," Dumbledore countered, using Severus's own words against him.

Severus knew defeat. He knew it well. But that didn't mean he'd concede.

"No," he said stubbornly. He tried to cross his arms but winced and gave up when they brushed against his body. "What would it look like to the rest of the student body?"

"What is it supposed to look like? Stories about what happened to you will be around the school like wildfire when you show up in your classes next week. It won't matter, Severus," Dumbledore said.

Madam Pomfrey had come back and threw a few more blankets on Severus.

"You're fevered," she explained, and left again.

Severus stared up at Dumbledore defiantly. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Fine. Fine, just get me some painkilling potions and something mind-altering, and it will all be just great." He put a nasty emphasis on his last word, spitting it out like a curse.

In spite of the situation, Dumbledore allowed himself a small, compassionate smile. "You'll be fine. It will be a learning experience for both of you, I'm sure."

Severus snorted.

Dumbledore rested a hand on Severus's shoulder briefly. "Sometime tomorrow, come to my office and we can discuss the finer points of what happened."

Severus had almost forgot about that part, but he didn't respond. He nodded shortly and turned over on his side, angry over the new assistant forced onto him.

Madam Pomfrey came back out of the storeroom, carrying a few more potions. She stumbled slightly on her long robe.

"Honestly, if this was a business, between you and Harry Potter I could have already retired," she said to herself as she gave the potions to the simmering professor.

* * *

Hermione stared at the letter, mouth open in shock.

"What does it say, Hermione?"

"Come on, tell us!"

Harry and Ron grabbed for the letter, but she pulled it out of their reach.

"I can't believe this!" she said, uncertain of how to feel about it.

Finally Harry's Quidditch reflexes overpowered her and he snatched it away from her. Ron scrambled behind him and read the letter, too.

They both turned to stare at her in horror.

"That's worse than Occlumency with him, Hermione. Wow," said Harry in awe, shaking his head.

"I'm glad I'm not you," Ron said, sounding disgusted at the very thought. "I couldn't work with that bastard. I can't even stand him in class. What are you going to do?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I don't know, you guys . . ."


End file.
